


I Hope That You Burn

by sabrina_11157



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Anger, Angst, F/M, Heartbreak, Infidelity, Letters, Love Letters, Memories, Song: Burn (Hamilton), Song: First Burn (Hamilton), Tears
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-01
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-12 16:08:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29762181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sabrina_11157/pseuds/sabrina_11157
Summary: 'Damniato Memoriae:' noun, Latin. To remove every trace of a person from life, as if they had never existed.
Relationships: Alexander Hamilton & Elizabeth "Eliza" Schuyler, Alexander Hamilton/Elizabeth "Eliza" Schuyler, Angelica Schuyler & Elizabeth "Eliza" Schuyler
Comments: 1
Kudos: 6





	I Hope That You Burn

Eliza Schuyler was completely calm. 

It puzzled her, really. Despite the hellish nightmare she and her precious children were currently living through, she felt perfectly lucid and sane.

Up until a few moments ago, she had been screaming wildly into her pillow, the worn fabric muffling the sound of her heartbreak. These past few weeks had been a spiral of horror, tears, and confusion, and nights like these spent crying herself to sleep, mollified slightly by the image of Alexander trying to sleep in his uncomfortable office chair.

A few weeks ago, when the accursed pamphlet was just published, Peggy arrived to unleash her ire upon Alexander and to take care of Eliza while they waited for Angelica's ship from England. Eliza had been a complete wreck, hardly able to move from her seat by the window. It was only the pleading of her children that gave her the willpower to get up, make an effort at composure, and go through the motions of daily cooking and cleaning. Eliza's fiery little sister Peggy had been a huge help, shouldering part of the housework and busying the children with games and books. After spending almost an hour screaming at Alexander, she had spent the next week acknowledging him only occasionally with a bone-chilling glare.

Eliza had barely been able to keep herself upright throughout the whole ordeal, especially when Peggy left last week. Thankfully, Angelica had arrived just that evening, and after giving Alexander a long, angry lecture that Eliza only heard bits and pieces of, she got the children ready for bed herself, shooing Eliza away to bed. Eliza had crumpled down on a soft couch, her energy completely spent.

It was from her position on the couch that an idea occurred to her, and the sobs suddenly quieted.

Eliza stood up on trembling legs and tossed the pillow aside. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror and winced. Her hair was lank and messy, falling over her face and partially obscuring her swollen red eyes. Her nightgown was wrinkled and lifeless. Though her outward appearance spoke of brokenness and instability, Eliza suddenly felt anything but.

She ran a brush through her hair and pulled it back, carefully pinning every hair into place. Cupping her hands into a basin of cold water, she splashed her face to rinse away the last remnants of her tears. She brushed the creases out of her nightgown, and straightened her posture. Yes, that was better.

Eliza walked over to her bed. A ball of fury rose her in throat. This was where her husband had been with another woman. An uneducated, whiny, manipulative woman, as her published letters had proven. The wife of the notorious weasel James Reynolds. If Alexander was going to have an affair, you'd think it would be with someone witty and charming.

Her lips curled into a disgusted sneer. Curse that woman to hell and back. Eliza would not even think her name. At least she was mocked and jeered at in the papers as much as Eliza herself. A small, vindictive comfort, but a comfort nonetheless.

Refusing to spare the harlot another thought, Eliza reached under the bed to pull out an ebony chest. Engraved with pretty flowers and decorative spirals, it was one of the most beautiful things Eliza owned, and held some of her most important possessions.

Alexander's letters to her.

She pulled the top one off of the stack and read through it. God almighty, the man could write. It was easy to see how a naive, romantic young woman would fall in love with the dashing war hero who had such talent in flattery and charm.

What a fool she had been. If only Eliza had listened to her sister. _I advise you to be careful with that one, love,_ Angelica had said to the lovestruck Eliza. _He will do what it takes to survive; he'll never be satisfied._ Her words had fallen on deaf ears.

 _I'm sorry for disregarding your thoughts, dear Angie,_ Eliza apologized in her head. _He really is an Icarus, flying to close to the sun._ Alexander, according to Peggy, thought that the pamphlet was self-preservation. Instead, it was self-sabotage. Hardly a dent had been made in his political career. Instead, it was his family that had violently exploded.

Eliza made her way downstairs, clutching the box of letters. She remembered bounding down these very same steps all those years ago, delighted to see that her husband was home safe from the war, overjoyed to tell him she was pregnant. Their reunion had been beautiful, a prized piece of nostalgia in Eliza's heart. Now, it was just painful.

 _Let me be a part of your narrative, in the story they will write about you someday,_ Eliza had pleaded. Oh, how desperately she had wanted to be an important part of Alexander's life. She had imagined that together they would plant the seeds of the story that would be told after their deaths.

No. Not anymore.

Eliza was forfeiting her place in the narrative, just as Alexander had forfeited his place in her heart.

She fumbled her way through the dark, finding a candle and lighting it, and setting it down on a silver candlestick. She took a seat by the table, reverently placing the box in her lap and clicking open the latch. The flame danced on the wick, casting dim and otherworldly shadows on Eliza's face. It penetrated the deep darkness of the room, just as Alexander Hamilton's strong light penetrated the unknowable darkness of history. The man was a hurricane, blowing in without a moment's notice, ripping and tearing, changing and devastating everything in his path for good or bad. He was determined to make his mark, to leave an impact.

Not if Eliza had anything to say about it.

She reread one of the letters, scanning the words and phrases for some kind of sign that they were all a charming, sweet lie. Frustratingly, there was none. Turning back to the flickering candle, she fed his sweet declaration of love into the fire.

The world already had so much of Alexander's tale. They would not have this. They would not have the now-wrecked love story of handsome, clever Alex and his kind, loyal Betsey. They would not have her reaction to this senseless betrayal. They had no right to know the intimate details of her life.

The written record of their love bent under the flame, sparking and smoking and scorching, disintegrating into ash that fell like snowflakes onto the table.

Eliza set another page on fire, watching with glee as the memory crackled and burned. This was her revenge; burning every last documentation of their relationship. Burning the memories. What had the Romans called it?...ah, yes. _Damniato memoriae._ The act of erasing someone's existence by obliterating their name from official records, monuments, and documents.

After all, what kind of retribution other than _damniato memoriae_ could be more fitting for Alexander Hamilton?

Condemning his very existence.

Erasing his legacy.

Burning the letters he had written to his true love.

Destroying his words.


End file.
